Daydreams
by His Living Doll
Summary: Both were too stubborn to admit their feelings for the other. Baltasar/Fiora, Barber/Courtesan. Smutty goodness with a touch of romance. M.
1. Baltasar

In the dim twilight of the shop, the man hissed once more as his blade sliced over his flesh. His brow knitted in annoyance as a tiny sliver of blood oozed out from the cut. Carefully, he held his hand a distance away from his fine clothing and searched for a rag.

When the spy had warned Cesare he had no skill as a barber, he wasn't lying.

Baltasar de Silva sighs, exasperated. That man always had an answer, shutting away his spy's protests with a simple, "I'm not looking for a successful business." Of course. Popular or not -heavy emphasis on not-, the barber shop had been set up fully stocked with any tools Baltasar would need to convince the public of Roma he was just a simple barber, working dutifully for a living with his lovely wife Fiora.

The dark-haired man stops suddenly, keeping a red rag pressed firmly over his wound.

_Si_, his lovely wife, Fiora.

If anyone was to ask, -unlikely-, he was to respond with some fabricated story of how he and the former courtesan came to be. Baltasar chuckles as he carefully puts away the razor he had been studying keenly. He doesn't remember too many of the details, but their little story went something like, "I'd fallen for her at first sight in a tiny village outside the bustling city."

Oh _si_, his beautiful, demure and simple sweetheart.

He laughs again, curled moustache drawn along with his smirking lips. Fiora Cavazza was a brilliant actress, in his opinion. The bold tart wore her simple clothing without protest, sauntering around the market for bread and meat, always with a calm smile that was only strange to Baltasar because he knew just how she acted in private. He knew well there was nothing demure and simple about the confident and extravagant woman. Nothing at all. Fiora was truly a dangerous and beautiful lady.

Baltasar jolts from his own thoughts, unaware how deeply he was swimming in his mind. He throws the rag down onto the counter in frustration, trying hard to keep up his arrogant front.

Dammit, she _was_ beautiful. There was no denying it. Beautiful in the way she held so much poise in her long, shapely legs, such grace in the hands that held her deadly fan. Her cocoa colored locks, that dark gleam of judgment in her deep eyes…

Moving away to take a rather loud seat on the wooden chair beside him, Baltasar grunts and continues his tangent thoughts, eyes closed in suppressed irritation. Damn, she was beautiful.

In his mind, the barber's eyes rake over Fiora's form clad in the courtesan outfit he found particularly attractive on her. Her breasts were no large bounty, but Baltasar found himself liking it, imagining how his large hands could cup and kneed and massage them easily. Then he would move them slowly, ever so slowly and teasingly down her creamy torso to rest on those wide hips. What Fiora lacked in the north she greatly made up for in the south.

A smirk twitching on his hairy lips, Baltasar, alone in the empty shop, continues to fantasize without pause.

What point was there in keeping his desires from himself?

_Si_, his hands would massage against her hips as she moaned, reaching back to stroke his dark hair. Grinning from her pleasure, he would slip to gently squeeze the rounded cheeks of her plump bottom. Oh, how she might squeak in surprise, turning to nip at his neck. She would murmur, "_What are you planning to do there, _padre~?"

At this, Baltasar would smirk and cackle darkly. _Si_, he was the _padre_, and she the _madre_ to their "project." And though at the time Il Lupo would certainly be off somewhere doing_ Dio_ knows what, the barber would uphold their little family roles. _When a mommy and a daddy really love each other_, indeed.

Baltasar feels a twitch in his loins just as he pictures himself shedding his trousers. He follows along, reaching down to tear at the buttons and release his growing beast from his fabric cage. Without shame, the barber grips the thick member in one hand and pleasures himself freely to thoughts of how he would make love to Fiora.

As all "married" couples do, he would grasp his "wife" to his bare chest, growling lowly with need and guiding her to their shared bed. She would laugh gently and smirk, breaking his grip with ease before starting to undress herself.

"_No_." Baltasar would halt her, eyes darkening with desire and his "razor" throbbing furiously. He would push at her shoulders, pinning her to the sheets of their bed and slowly working to remove her clothing until she was left bare and beautiful below him. He would make her squirm in frustration and growing want, his eyes drinking in the sights of her soft toned skin, her slim waist, plump little buds and rosy peeks, then lower to her generous bottom and precious flower hidden beneath a garden of rich curls.

Oh, how her expression would change from dominant to submissive once his tongue invaded her core. Fiora would blush deeply and cry out as he would wonder if any of her pathetic customers ever thought of her pleasure. No matter, for he was her muscled, handsome husband, and would give her all the satisfaction she could beg for.

And she would beg. Oh _dio_, she would be at his mercy. Fiora's sweet, needful gasps and shrieks would fill their bedroom and the barber's own pleasure. How he would enjoy drinking her with fever and repeating again and again a circuit up her smooth slit and around her throbbing button. Soon, his thick fingers would plunge into her dripping entrance, tickling her walls from the inside to make the courtesan arch up and scream his name. _How beautifully Fiora must moan_, Baltasar grunts in his mind, not minding his panting as his hand strokes up and down his blade.

The barber would push her further and further to the edge, the dark hair of his moustache teasing her soft petals and lips ever so gently sucking on her button. But Baltasar knew she was not as fragile as she appeared in public. He would begin to pump his fingers roughly inside her sweet hidden cave, lick a bit harder each time he felt the courtesan's slippery insides squeeze his digits. The barber's free hand would reach up to again massage her breast, taking her hardened pink nipple between his thumb and index finger and pressing forcefully.

After what he hoped would last for an eternity, Baltasar would make Fiora would cry out in ecstasy, and he would roar back, "_Oh, you like this, don't you Fiora_?"

In her own beautiful way, the courtesan would pant and moan, "Si, si, si_, ooh, more, Baltasar_!"

His dream Fiora would arch against his lips and release her sweet honey for him, and only him. Just as he imagines lapping up all she would give him, Baltasar chokes out a gasp and spills his seeds over his hand, thrusting into his fist a few more times before collapsing fully in the chair.

With images of his beautiful, satisfied and panting Fiora fading, the barber groans and lazily glances out the window at the darkened Roma night. _Dio_, how long had he been sitting there, just thinking- no, fantasizing, of the woman he had become hopelessly infatuated with?

Much too long, Baltasar concludes as he wipes up the white cream from his fingers and limping member. Self-consciously, he gazes around at the quiet shop and out into the sparsely populated street.

For once, having such an unpopular barber shop was a good thing. Now clothed and composed, the unskilled barber resumes putting away the unused tools. If anything, at least he could be alone with his thoughts. Baltasar brushes back his pitch colored hair and grunts softly, savoring the silence of the night until a single though sends a jolt through his spine, ending in his loins.

It was almost midnight, and his lone patron would be returning soon from her surveillance.

His beloved little wife.

Rather than become annoyed or flustered, the barber simply smirks darkly with a matching chuckle.

How _late_ she would be returning, his Fiora.

Setting up his chair right by the hidden door of the shop, Baltasar waits with arms crossed over his chest, thinking of just the perfect way to "punish" his beautiful Fiora.


	2. Fiora

While Fiora Cavazza was not unused to seeing naked men, it did anger her quite a bit to find one reclining in her bathtub.

First and foremost, following in her rather selfish tendencies, it was _her _bathtub. In fact, that entire bathroom was designated to her and her alone. Finding some large-muscled brute taking oasis in her finely crafted place of washing was enough to set the brunette fuming.

As she stormed in closer, the courtesan's gaze was drawn to the still unrecognized stranger's nether parts, only partially obscured by the murky, hot water he was relaxing in.

Or rather, jolting up and flushing in.

With her feminine figure coming into view through the steam, the man let out a low-toned noise of surprise and embarrassment and scrambled to cover up his offending region.

Fiora raises her brow at the familiarity of the sound.

"Baltasar?"

The name hung heavy in the steam-clouded room until the barber himself finally coughed in confirmation. The dark-haired man nervously flinched between gazing up at the courtesan and letting his eyes focus on something that wasn't as irritated and angered as the woman whose private bath he was currently resting in.

Fiora was not a patient woman, not when it came to finding her partner in her most private of places, leaving her bathwater soaked in _dio_ knows what. With a hushed hiss and a threatening stalk forward, the barber was on his feet and running swiftly for the door. And hopefully from their shared barber shop, if he knew what was good for him. Baltasar was probably still as naked as the day he was born, but Fiora hardly had the mind to care. The pervert might get some thrill out of exposing himself to Roma.

She turns her attention to the barber's used bathwater, dull grey and putrid looking.

_Dio_, how long had that…_stronzo_ defiled her precious bath?

It was almost enough to set her nerves aflame, to run after him in pursuit. That disgusting brute!

How pleased Baltasar must have been with himself, to soak his grime and sweat stained muscular body for so long without her knowing. He must have laughed in triumph, chuckled as he rinsed her water over his well-toned chest, soaking the thick, coarse hair he let grow there. The beads would trail down quickly over his defined stomach and abs before resting at the deep V-shape where his hips met the bath.

Fiora jerks forcibly from her dazed dream. _Cazzo,_ what the hell was she doing?

The little shivers of awakening pleasure in her loins drew sharp, frustrated breaths from above. To clear her head, the courtesan swiftly exits the bathroom that joined her bedroom, and collapsed onto the plainly embroidered sheets of her bed.

How could she even think of that man, Baltasar de Silva, in such a way?

He was her reluctant partner, a spy with no skill at his cover, and insufferably rude and perverted.

He was filthy of mouth and body, no matter how muscled and tanned that body was.

He was irritating, nauseating, and ever so dirty.

And he aroused her greatly.

Frustrated to the point of breaking, Fiora lets her needs over ride her senses. _Si,_ he was quite arousing, the courtesan begins to fantasize.

Eyes clothes and hands deftly peeling away at her guise, she imagines if Baltasar reacted differently to her justified intrusion.

With her skilled fingers teasingly searching through the tight curls of her garden, Fiora sees the sexy barber coax her forward to him with a single, thick finger. Obeying with a sultry sway of her hips, Fiora knees beside the man to see his thick, hardened cock already rising from the water. It throbs visibly, veins snaking their way up from the dark hair of his base, pulsating gently. Baltasar smirks arrogantly, patting the courtesan on the head to entice her further.

But Fiora seeks much more than what the man offers. Just as her tender fingers find her inner flower, she imagines herself joining Baltasar in her bath, naked form settling comfortably in his strong arms. His hands would caress every inch of her wet skin, his massaging alternating between rough and gentle, just as she loved it.

Soon, she would be lifted until her tender petals met with his flushed, throbbing tip. A gasp shoots through her lips, both in dream and reality, where Fiora's fingers have begun to stroke gently against the soaked, pink silk of her maidenhood.

"Amore_, you know I'm much bigger than most of the men you've been with…"_ Baltasar would chuckle deeply, teasingly rubbing his tip up and down the courtesan's slit as he coaxes her to part and let him enter. At this, Fiora would close her dark eyes and sigh softly, letting him take control.

"S-Si…_ You know, most of my customers do not seek this far…_" She would admit. And it was the truth, surprisingly. She was quite apt at this point to bringing men to climax with her lips alone.

Fiora's core burns as her smooth fingers prod into her entrance, thumb arching back to give her pulsating button a slow circle.

"_Then be sure to enjoy this, _mia amore_… Just as I'll savor this gift you've given me…" _The Barber would grin, gripping her soft hips tightly to lower her onto his length completely. Her back would arch, pressing her only further onto him, and he would groan in pleasure. Just as her index finger plunges inside her soaked entrance, Fiora fantasizes how Baltasar's thick cock would feel buried into her, throbbing powerfully against her silken walls. She knew full well he was well-endowed, and what he lacked in skill for shaving was no reflection, she imagines, of his intimate experience.

Slowly at first, and then roughly, Baltasar would force her to ride his blade, the bath water making his actions slightly easier. Fiora arches up on her bed to take in a second finger, eyes screwed shut in pleasure from the thought of the barber fucking her in such a way. _Dio_, she just loved being taken, yet no customer would satisfy her inner desires. They would be silent during their sessions, save a few gasps and moans. But Baltasar, a man of such perverseness, would certainly enjoy their role play.

"Si, cazzo si_… You like this, huh, _mia bella_? Hnn…tell Baltasar what you want. Tell me, amo. Scream it for me…" _Again and again he would hiss his magic words, drawing out her pleasure with his member and shoving her to the brink with his words. His hands would move with expert skill, one firmly grasping her plump cheek and the other sliding up to appreciate the rosy bud of her breast, all the while keeping the rhythm of his wide hips steady to thrust his cock into her silken flower.

"O-Ohh.. nhh…nhh…" Biting down on her lips until she fears she'll draw blood, Fiora pumps as fast as she can inside of herself, her other hand occupied with her tender bundle of nerves that made her want to scream. Instead, she sees herself screaming for Baltasar, her climax sending her sweet honey over her hands as her fantasy barber releases his seed over her back and bottom, roaring her name in pleasure.

Dizzy, the courtesan remains panting on her bed for some time, thinking about cleaning up only in passing. Her bath was still filthy, she remembers with a twitch of annoyance. Turning over onto her side, Fiora purses her lips as she wonders when Baltasar will return, if ever.

With a small smirk, she pretends to rest, thinking up the perfect punishment for her partner.

He had, after all, taken her chance for a pleasurable bath.

He would just have to make it up to her.


End file.
